


Spectacle

by PrivateBi



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Drug Use, Exhibitionism, Gen, Masturbation, Tentacles, We're following in WTNV's footsteps: Cecil has tentacles, bc he has No Qualms fucking up his body for views, take that however you want you'll be right either way, which reminds me:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrivateBi/pseuds/PrivateBi
Summary: The censorship of Hyperion City's streams is nonexistent. Which means Cecil Kanagawa can not only attach mechanical tentacles to himself for the express purpose of getting off, but also film and broadcast the whole thing. Because, honestly, there's nothing he wouldn't do for views.





	Spectacle

**Author's Note:**

> When the Tentacle Spectacle event was suggested to the chat, I was inspired to write this with shocking rapidity. This fic is way out of my comfort zone, but I had a really good time writing it, and I wound up being more proud of it than I thought I would be.

Cecil Kanagawa needed viewers. He didn’t care if his audience loved him, hated him, reviled him or objectified him; all that mattered was that they were watching him. He needed them to justify his existence, to make him feel real, to give him the only meaning he’d ever have. After all, a performance without an audience is worse than nothing at all. And Cecil, left alone and unseen, was exactly that: worse than nothing at all, performing desperately for a viewer base that was rapidly abandoning him. One failed show was all it took, and they were leaving in droves, giving their attention - the only commodity that had ever been worth anything - to Cassandra. She didn’t even want her time in prison to be televised, yet she had all of Mars watching her, while Cecil all but screamed  _ look at me. Please, look at me.  _

So Cecil had done the only thing he knew to try in this situation; he’d found a new hook. He was looking at it now, over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror. A double row of metal ports, lined up on either side of his spine, sunken into his bleached-white skin like dots on a domino. He twisted to run a finger over the newly-healed flesh around the edge of one of them. It was still slightly pink and raw - understandable, seeing as he’d sliced it open and fused it with cutting-edge nanotechnology barely more than a week ago - but that was nothing clever lighting and a few digital touch-ups couldn’t fix. The show couldn’t wait any longer; he had to go on. This was going to work, he swore to himself. This after-dark special was already the perfect trap for lonely viewers, and his latest body mod ensured it would be like nothing anyone had ever seen before. If the sex appeal wasn’t enough to bring him back into the public eye, the shock factor would be. 

He turned to face his reflection for one final wardrobe check, adjusting the silk panties he wore until they lay just so against him, red and shiny as blood under set lights. After practicing a few key expressions - his lipsticked mouth opened wide in a perfect O, his eyes rolled back convincingly under fluttering false eyelashes - he pulled the mirror open to reveal a well-stocked medicine cupboard. He popped a painkiller first; after all, he had recently undergone his most invasive surgery yet. He followed it up with another pill, smaller yet more potent, swallowed dry to avoid even the slightest smudge to his makeup. 

He barely had time to close the cupboard once more before the medicine began to take effect. A tingling warmth swept over his entire body, starting in the pit of his stomach and spreading out, flushing his cheeks and turning his legs wobbly beneath him. The effect was intense and instantaneous, and Cecil knew he’d been right not to leave this up to any legal aphrodisiac, let alone whatever feeble, natural hormones he could produce on his own. There was only a short window of time available to him before the pill’s effects would peak, he knew, so he opened the door and walked out onto the set to face the cameras. 

Technically speaking, what he thought of as a set was just his bedroom. There was his cluttered vanity table in the corner, his bed in the center of the room, draped in steel-gray cotton sheets, the entire space lit dimly by dozens of meticulously controlled stage lights set into the ceiling. It was his own space, through and through, but tonight he’d had it rigged up with over a dozen cameras, along with their accompanying audio recorders. Although they were hidden so as not to appear on screen, he’d demanded to know the location of each lens. A well-placed glance into a camera could make a viewer feel like they were part of the action, and Cecil fully intended to make use of that. It was for this same reason that he’d elected against filming on a proper set, in favor of giving the audience a tantalizing glimpse into his own private life. When he’d pitched the idea, he’d laughed. What a delightful conceit, to even pretend that there was anything private about his life.  Still, the appeal depended on the illusion, on the juxtaposition of a seemingly personal moment being broadcast on a stream for all to see.

And truly, everything about him was designed to be broadcast, from the sway of his hips as he walked - taking care to pass a camera by closely, to get an establishing shot of the ports in his back - to the way he languidly arranged himself on the cushions of his bed, legs spread just so to reveal the dark wetness that had begun to spread on the fabric between them. He trailed his hand over the red silk to circle that spot, teasing himself. At the same time, he was teasing the audience, letting them think for a moment that they knew what he was planning. 

When he dipped a finger under his shorts, he found himself already dripping with want. Lifting his hips, he pulled his underwear off and flung them aside. They’d served their purpose; now their screen time was up. The room seemed colder, somehow, now that he was completely naked. The feeling could have been compared to the freezing needles that prick at the necks of those who know they’re being watched, but that would be ludicrous; Cecil had long since stopped noticing those. With light touches, he bared the part of himself the audience was really there to see, fingering himself open, taking his time. The microphones were sensitive enough to pick up the vulgar, wet sounds being made, overlaid with the whisper of panting breaths. Cecil’s chest rose and fell exaggeratedly, a motion intended to complement the way his body undulated as he ground down against his hand. Staccato vocalizations fell from his mouth, but no words; it was better to leave his thoughts up to the imagination of the audience. His moans grew louder and more high pitched as he carried on touching himself shamelessly for the voyeuristic gratification of his viewers. 

Soon, he was desperately worked up, as if he’d been at this far longer than a few minutes. This was mostly thanks to the drugs, but increasingly Cecil was high on his own anticipation. The dramatic suspense had reached its climax; the audience would change streams if kept waiting any longer. Now was the time for Cecil to unveil his latest creation. Smoothly and slowly as taffy being pulled, he sat up just enough that the camera hidden in the headboard behind him had a clear shot of his back, from which dozens of glimmering, metallic tendrils were beginning to emerge.

He moved them slowly at first, drawing out the reveal as well as luxuriating in the new sensation of the tentacles sliding across his sheets, down his chest, around his waist. They enveloped him in their artificial embrace, draping over him and spreading out around him like oil on a puddle; shimmering, iridescent, and filthy. Although each individual tendril was barely thicker than a pencil, their combined grip was strong enough to leave red marks on his thighs as they wrapped around them and pulled them further apart. His muscles burned at the stretch, but the slight pain melted into sweetness as he relaxed, caught up in the bliss that grew with every inch of tentacle that unfurled from within him. 

All of the doctors that he’d consulted before beginning the project had told him it was lunacy to integrate the prostheses so completely with his own nervous system, but the sensitivity they were demonstrating now made the risk of detrimental nerve damage entirely worth it. Radiating from them was a pleasure more intense than anything his physical body could have managed; searing and forceful, almost to the point of discomfort. Within moments, Cecil knew he couldn’t possibly get enough. He used the tentacles to rut against himself hungrily, and as they writhed over his skin, Cecil curled his half-open mouth into a dazed smile. A high pitched keen began in his throat, moved through his parted lips, and echoed off the walls. 

Nothing had ever felt like this before, overwhelming and alien and so, so good. The motions of the hand between his legs, which had been so delicious only minutes before, were all but forgotten. When he wrapped a few of the tendrils around the hand he was using to pleasure himself, Cecil’s breath caught in his chest. The tentacles, cold and inhuman, pressed into him where he was open and yielding, and moved with his fingers as he thrust them in again and again, setting a frantic pace. He was somewhere between moaning and panting, head lolling against the pillows, heels digging into the mattress. Dimly, he hoped the microphones were picking up on the faint metallic sounds the tendrils made as they scraped against his prosthetic hand, but the thought was abandoned in favor of chasing his growing ecstasy. 

The exposed column of his throat bulged as he pushed a bundle of tentacles past his parted lips and used them to fuck his own mouth. They moved fast and deep enough to make him choke, or maybe to make him sob, but either way his lipstick was smudged and his mascara was beginning to run. Before filming had begun, he’d specifically left his makeup un-set, with the goal of appearing to lose all control. After all, he had a reputation for being somewhat unhinged; leaning into that could only be called good showmanship. However, as he carried on, gasping around the tendrils in his mouth, not bothering to wipe away the mess of saliva coating them, that feigned loss of control felt more and more real. 

He was reaching his peak, could feel the heat pooling low in his abdomen, see the dark haze blurring the edges of his vision, his world narrowing to the all-encompassing sensation of hot flesh against cool metal. At this point, it was only the tentacles that were moving; Cecil had allowed his body to go limp, animated only by the sparks of electric pleasure that caused him to twitch and shake. Colored contacts rolled back into their sockets as the tentacles collectively pulsed into and around their host, tipping him at last over the edge. Cecil screamed, back arching spasmodically off the mattress, somehow more theatrical than ever in this brief moment of authenticity.

Motionless, the tentacles could almost be mistaken for a tangle of wires. Among them, Cecil lay still, save for the heaving of his chest. Gradually, his heart began to ease its frantic beating and heat seemed to drain from his limbs, leaving him cold and tired. The cameras’ gaze raked over every vulnerable inch of exposed skin. As he lay there, simply allowing himself to come down from his high, Cecil felt more indecent than he had when he was performing obscenities. There was no art left in this, and certainly no entertainment. He pulled a remote out of the bedside table and pressed a button. With a synchronized click, the cameras turned off, leaving Cecil alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: a significant portion of this was written on my phone, bc my laptop was Broken for awhile
> 
> I'm @ginnie-darling on tumblr, if you wanna come ask me why, exactly, I decided to let this fic be part of my reputation


End file.
